


Summer Heat

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Anthropomorphic, Explicit Sexual Content, Faunlock, Fauns & Satyrs, Fawnlock, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Rutting, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One late morning dip in a forest pool opens the door to a whole new possibility in John's relationship with the faun Sherlock, one he isn't quite ready to confront--at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bennyslegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/gifts).



> Way belated for everyone who's been waiting for this, but especially Fawnlock's mammas Paula and Budden.
> 
> Before anyone gets on my case about biology, HE'S NOT EXACTLY YOUR AVERAGE MAMMAL NOW IS HE? ~~This ended up bordering on omegaverse not sorry.~~

John smiled to himself as Sherlock padded up and down the rows of the newly sown vegetable garden. He sat on the ground, leaning back on his hands, relaxing after the morning’s work. “They won’t grow overnight,” he called to the faun.

Sherlock looked up, long furred ears and flat dirt-smudged nose twitching. He squinted and scrunched up his nose. It was a look John associated with a human scowl, and more or less said, “I’m not stupid.”

John sat up and held up his hands peaceably. “Teasing, teasing.”

The faun turned back to his inspection. A few minutes later, apparently deeming all was well, he padded around the garden and plopped in the grass beside John.

“You’re filthy,” John commented as he tried to wipe a bit of dirt off Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock flinched at the unexpected touch, but he no longer ran off as he used to. He stared at John and brought his fingertips to his cheek, prodding him.

John rubbed at the dirt on his own face. “Me too, huh? I guess we both could use a bath.”

The faun at once started to groom himself.

“I think you might need a little more work than that,” John chuckled.

Sherlock tilted his head.

John got to his feet and headed to the back door of the cabin, stretching the ache out of his bad shoulder as he went. Sherlock followed a few paces behind, mimicking John by wiping his bare feet on the doormat, and into the house. He stood uncertainly on the threshold to the bathroom.

“It’s alright.” John beckoned him onto the cool tile. He turned on the faucet and watched Sherlock’s eyes grow wide with curiosity. He loved seeing new things.

And true to form, he darted into the small room and began examining the tub, feeling and sniffing and at last putting his hand under the water. “Tap,” he said, referring to the sink in the kitchen, which he was very familiar with by now. More than once, John had found him simply turning it on and off in fascination.

“But bigger. It’s called a bath.”

Sherlock tried sounding out the word. As often happened with “th,” though, he got distracted by making the single sound over and over, playing with the different ways his tongue and teeth connected to produce it.

John interrupted him, mostly to keep himself from laughing, “You can wash your whole body, not just your hands. And you can also use it as a shower.” He switched the flow of water.

Sherlock shot back against the wall, crouched, eyes wide, nostrils flared, snorting.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s okay. Look.” John put his hand under the shower and waited for the faun to settle.

Eventually he did and crept back up to the side of the tub. He looked sceptically at the shower. He sniffed it, shook his head when it got wet, and finally stuck out his tongue under the spray.

John chuckled. “It’s like a big tap,” he said. “Big enough to put your whole body under.”

“Big?” Sherlock cocked his head. Then his eyes lit up. “Big!” He tugged on John’s shirt before bolting.

“Wait!” John shut off the water and darted after his unpredictable friend. The faun was waiting on the far side of the new garden, but only long enough for John to show up. As soon as John stepped out the back door, he was off again.

John had two options: follow him, or wait until he came back and get on with his day. He was tired from gardening, but, truth be told, he was as curious about Sherlock and his world as Sherlock was about John’s. He took off through the trees.

Sherlock would regularly stop and backtrack enough to make sure John was following, so John had no concerns about getting lost—for now. He did his best to keep track of their path, in case the faun decided to go off on his own instead of leading John back to his house. It had happened more than once.

The trees broke away to a glade John had not been before, with a clear rocky stream and a large calm pool into which it flowed. Sherlock was already splashing into the shallows. John grinned.

Sherlock jogged back to him, tugging on his arm. “Bath! Th, th.”

“Isn’t it cold?” It was still early summer, and John did not have a natural covering of fur. The sun streamed down on the water, though, and that seemed promising.

Sherlock circled behind him, set both hands firmly on his back, and began pushing him bodily toward the water.

“Alright, alright!” John laughed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherlock watched in fascination as he always did when John took off an article of clothing. It was a gaze that John had grown used to. When he had undone his trousers, though, he tried to remember if Sherlock had ever seen him completely nude before and paused.

He’d been in the army. Why should this bother him? Well, for one, his comrades didn’t stare at him with blatant curiosity when he undressed and bathed.

“John. Bath. Th-th. Bath, John.” Sherlock tugged his arm again, gentler this time.

“Right.” John shoved down his trousers and pants and followed Sherlock into the pond. It was cool, but the bright sun kept it from being cold.

Sherlock turned out to be a remarkable swimmer and, while John mostly floated around and let his muscles relax, the faun splashed to and fro with abandon.

When they emerged from the water, Sherlock immediately fell to the ground and began rolling the sun-warmed grass.

“Doesn’t that kind of negate the whole bathing thing?”

Sherlock snorted and continued to roll.

John chuckled and stretched out on the grass himself, enjoying the sun’s warmth as it dried him. He was beginning to doze when a wet nose in his armpit startled him. “Oi, that tickles.” He swatted blindly at Sherlock’s head, his and brushing the antlers and a few curls. The faun moved away, and John went back to a state of quite-not-awake.

Then there was a wet nose against a very different part of his body, and his eyes shot open and he pushed himself clumsily to a sitting position.

“Sherlock! NO!”

The faun looked up from where he was squatting by John’s thigh. His ears drooped, and he gave a little frown. “Wrong?”

“Yes!” John blurted. “Very wrong!”

Sherlock rocked back onto his haunches. “Why?”

Sometimes John thought that was the faun’s favourite word. “Because it’s... It’s intimate. Personal.” He didn’t add that it was strange as hell.

“Smell.” His ears flicked. “Herd.”

“Heard?” John started to shake his head in confusion, but realisation hit him. “Oh, herd. Your herd. Your... Your family?”

Sherlock nodded. “Smell.” His tongue darted out to wet his flat snout. “Smell herd.”

“You... You smell your family—your herd? I guess that makes sense.” John gave a slow shake of his head. “Humans don’t do that.”

“How?”

“How? How what?” That wouldn’t help. “How do we—smell—our family?”

Sherlock bobbed his head.

“Well, we don’t. Smelling each other is—”

But he had lost Sherlock’s attention. It had turned back to his genitals, at which he was now staring with extreme curiosity.

And no wonder. The brief touch from a stranger—however brief, however odd—had affected John’s rather neglected penis. Not to say he was hard as a rock, but he had lost some flaccidity.

He groaned and rubbed his hands down his face.

Then Sherlock poked it.

“SHERLOCK!” John’s voice was strangled with shock.

“Heat?”

“What? No! God, no. I’m not- Stop staring at it,” John pleaded.

Sherlock gave his face his attention again.

“Male fauns go through heat?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Humans don’t go through heat, Sherlock. Well, not really. I mean, women sort of do, but not as extreme as anima—your people.” He hadn’t caught himself soon enough. Sherlock hated when John used the word animal to even remotely apply to him and his kind, and he hadn’t missed it.

The faun’s ears flattened and he gave his pseudo-scowl, with far angrier than he had looked that morning. 

“‘lock, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He held his hand out. “I was just flustered. You made me nervous.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to his hand, but he didn’t relax. “Why?”

John dropped his hand and combed his fingers through his hair. “Family—human families—don’t go around sniffing each other, let along their private bits.”

The faun’s ears tentatively lifted from his skull. He looked around and, spotting something, pointed. He looked back at John, hand indicating the pile of discarded clothes.

“Yes, we wear clothes to cover ourselves. We don’t have fur like you.” He smiled and scratched behind Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock relaxed, but his curiosity was not sated. “No heat?”

“No, we don’t go into heat.”

“Mate?”

“Well, we can, er, mate whenever we want.” John desperately wanted his clothes at the moment. His prick had remained mildly interested despite the conversation.

“Mate? John mate?”

John’s smile faltered at the topic he didn’t much care to think about, let alone discuss. “No, ‘lock, I don’t have a mate.”

Sherlock shook his head and poked John’s thigh. “Mate. John mate.”

“I told you, I don’t have a mate. There aren’t a lot of peop—humans around here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

The faun huffed in frustration. He crawled up to John and nudged his shoulder with his forehead, careful to avoid poking him with his antlers. That had happened more than once. “John mate.”

“You- You think I’m your mate? Sherlock, no.” He pushed Sherlock back gently. “No, we’re not mates.”

Sherlock poked him hard in the chest. “John say one mate.” He pointed at himself.

“Oh, god. Sherlock, I didn’t mean that kind of mate. ‘Mate’ is another word for friend.”

“No John mate?”

He shook his head. “No, not like that.”

Sherlock’s ears drooped once again, and this time his eyes fell as well. He rose to his feet and padded, back slouched, to the edge of the pool.

John looked despairingly at his clothes, but covering up now was not going to make the faun feel any better about himself. He got up and joined Sherlock by the water. “I’m sorry, ‘lock. I didn’t realise that’s what you thought.” John squatted beside him and put a hand on his back.

Sherlock picked up a rock and chucked it violently into the water.

“Hey, hey now. What’s wrong?” John took Sherlock’s shoulder and turned him. “We can still be friends.”

“No mate,” Sherlock grunted.

“I know, I’m sorry. If I had known that’s what you thought—”

But Sherlock shook his head and pushed John’s hands away. He jabbed his own chest with a finger. “No mate.”

“Don’t be like that. I’m sure there are plenty of lady fauns who like you.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disgust.

“Oh, but you don’t like them?”

He nodded.

“Well, what about the blokes?”

“No.”

“No what? You don’t like any of them either?”

Sherlock’s gaze slipped.

“Oh I see. None of them like blokes too.”

Sherlock answered with a slow, grave nod.

John grimaced at a new thought. “So, when it’s mating season...”

The faun squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. “No mate. No mate. Hurt. Fire fire fire hurt.”

“You don’t, uhm, take care of it yourself? I mean, it’s not the same, but it might help.” It shouldn’t have been this awkward—he was a doctor after all—but his pity for Sherlock was overwhelming his professional attitude.

Sherlock cocked his head. “No know what mean.”

“There are ways to give yourself relief.”

“How?”

“Well, you use your hands to mimic the friction of—”

“Too much words. Show, show.”

“Show you? Uh, it’s usually something one does in private, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him and grabbed his hand, tugging it down to John’s crotch. “Show!”

“I can’t just show you how to masturbate!”

“John say no heat,” Sherlock huffed. “Mate any time. Show, show.”

John was faced with a very harsh conflict of interests at that moment. On one hand, one did not simply masturbate in front of their friend—especially a friend that science had no way of explaining, that shouldn’t even exist according to the rules of nature as humankind knew them. On the other hand, Sherlock would be miserable come season, and possibly try to deal with it himself now that John had enlightened him thus far. He could very easily hurt himself. Knowing Sherlock and his tendency toward the extreme, he probably would hurt himself.

And it was Sherlock, which meant he would catch on after the first go and John would most definitely only have to show him once.

“Alright. Just—sit, alright?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, sitting with his heels tucked against him, knees bent out and hands planted on the ground. He watched attentively.

“I’m going to lay down. It’s easier for me that way, alright?”

The faun gave another enthusiastic nod.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He stretched himself back on the grass, knees bent up and legs spread. He needed fodder, something to think about other than the large dark silver eyes watching him. So, naturally, he went back to his last good shag.

It was four months before he was shot. The man was from another company—infantry, not medical—but their camps were side-by-side, and there had been a lot of mingling. You knew your own company like family, but that was precisely the reason new faces were always welcome.

The soldier was tall and lithe, though muscle was hidden under his slim figure. And he had been a magnificent lover. He never saw what they had as anything more than what it was, but he also didn’t roll out of the cot as soon as he had come. They grew to be friends as much as they were fuckbuddies. And, like John, he was as eager to take as he was to give. There was no hierarchy between them in bed, no constant top-bottom dynamic. Those were the lovers John felt most comfortable with, the ones he feared would evolve into something more. But it only lasted two weeks between them. The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were given new orders, a new destination, and one more lover passed out of John’s life.

But he focused on the good moments now, the moments of mingled sweat and saliva and pre-ejaculate, come mixed in puddles in their navels; the moments where John surprised his lover with his strength, holding the taller man up, fucking him standing until they collapsed on the floor, laughing between gasps and shouts as they came; the moments in the showers in the hours after midnight, cocks squeezed together between two entirely different hands; the moments where they fell asleep together, only for one to wake the other because of the nightmares; the moments they kissed each other back to calm and quiet and sleep, waking each other before dawn with furtive tongues and hands.

John came with a low groan in the back of his throat, shuddering as he covered his hand in come.

A tentative nose brushed his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock gazing down at him. “No move?” he whispered.

John smiled. “I can move.” He pushed himself up and went to the water to clean himself off. When he turned back, Sherlock was still watching him intently. Heat rose to John’s cheeks. “Did you, uh, understand?”

Sherlock nodded. He padded over to John’s discarded clothes and returned with them bundled in his arms.

John tucked them under his arm. “You’re going to have to show me the way back. I’m completely lost.” He gave Sherlock a lazy grin. The faun took hold of his wrist and led him back into the woods.

 

If John had thought hard about it, he might have been able to trace the path of what led them from the day at the pool—the first of many—to where they were now. He might have been able to connect the days like dots, remembering whether he pulled out the old anatomy book or the new magazines first, whether it was science or fantasy that he explained first. He could have placed the day—within a week or so—where he had to stop Sherlock from using a branch in emulation of something he saw in one of those magazines. John might have even been able to recall the hour he went into town, took the train to London, and bought toys and supplies for the faun. Maybe he could even pinpoint the moment of surprise between them both when Sherlock discovered he did not actually have to wait for the rut to become sexually stimulated, the morning John had to explain to him what a wet dream was. He could have concluded that it had, of course, led him to research and the theory that male fauns didn’t have a heat per say, but their testosterone levels likely skyrocketed when the females went into oestrus. For a male faun more affected by other males than by females, that could mean anything.

But the timeline didn’t matter at that point. John had come back from town with some of the groceries he couldn’t grow to find his door wide open. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to leave the door open, but John’s gut told him something was off. He set the bags on the table and called for his friend.

Not a second later, a wordless mew was the reply.

John sprinted to the back of the cabin and found Sherlock curled up on the bathroom floor under the cabinet where he kept his things. He had made it clear to John that he would not risk his herd’s reaction to such things. He was in a tight ball, his hand moving between his legs with short, useless motions. His dark skin and fine summer fur was drenched in sweat, and the August weather, miserable though it was, could hardly be to blame.

It took John a panicked moment to realise Sherlock was not hurt, at least not in any conventional way. He knelt down and scooped Sherlock up. As he carried him out of the bathroom, Sherlock reached back with his free hand, whining so pitifully it made John’s chest ache.

“Sh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He brought him to his room and set him on the bed.

Sherlock twisted and whimpered, the hand between his thighs moving faster and more uselessly.

John took hold of his arm and stilled it. “Hey. Look at me, ‘lock.” He brushed his other hand across Sherlock’s hot forehead, brushing the damp curls back. “Can you look at me?”

Sherlock did his best to pry his eyes open, but he only managed a brief squint at John before squeezing them shut again and trying to move his arm.

John held it fast and lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “Let me take care of you. I’ll make it better. Will you let me?”

Now Sherlock’s eyes truly opened, though still pained. His lips trembled before he managed a weak sound, and finally words. “M- mate?”

“Yes.” John rested his forehead against the faun’s. “Yes, I’ll be your mate.”

Sherlock keened and his legs fell open. He let John move his hand away from his erection. It had once startled John had how very human the faun’s anatomy was. Now he was only concerned about how long he had been like this, how much it must hurt by now.

He pulled a bottle of lube from his bedside table. He wrapped a slicked hand around Sherlock’s prick, startled to find it so hot. He dreaded to think how many years Sherlock had to suffer through this.

Furred thighs clamped around John’s hand. He used the other to rub slow circles on Sherlock’s stomach. He kissed his forehead and pressed their noses together. “I’ll take care of you, love.” The thighs slackened enough for John to move his hand. As he pumped his fist steadily around Sherlock’s cock, he whispered into his ear, “Tell me what you want.”

“T- toy,” Sherlock cried softly.

“I can get you a toy,” John said, “or you can have me.”

Sherlock’s eyes burst open then. He nodded and clung to the bedsheet.

John striped quickly and settled himself between Sherlock’s legs. He returned his hand to Sherlock’s cock, and with the other he traced a finger from bollocks to entrance through thin summer fur. He circled a finger until the muscles would relax as much as they would, and then pushed one digit inside. Sherlock clamped down on him until John’s whispers relaxed him enough for John to continue.

John tried to move as quickly but as safely as possible. It was obvious how much Sherlock needed release, but he didn’t want this experience to be miserable. This was something he would deal with every year; he needed to know it could be enjoyable. John was set in his task to show him just that.

Once John was inside him, Sherlock’s entire bearing changed. He settled around John, clearly still desperate, but far less panicked. He looked up at John, eyes wet, an unidentifiable emotion washing over him. “Over,” he murmured, shifting his hips for emphasis.

John was a little disappointed; he wanted to watch Sherlock’s face for this. But this wasn’t about him, not this round. He pulled out and Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, and then he pushed back in.

It didn’t take long for John to understand why Sherlock wanted to be on his stomach. He needed more friction against his cock, more than John’s slick hands could give him.

John gave the first thrust, and Sherlock responded by pushing back to meet him.

There was no gradual build-up to their rhythm. After the first couple, it was fast and hard. John needed purchase, and found it unthinkingly in Sherlock’s antlers. As he pounded into Sherlock over and over, Sherlock rutted desperately against the mattress. He lasted far longer than John would have expected, given the state he was in before they started. When he came, it was with the sound of a dying animal.

He had lasted so long with John inside him that John himself had begun to worry that he wouldn’t be able to hold out long enough. He was relieved when Sherlock’s muscles clenched around his own cock and he gave in with a few last shuttered thrusts to orgasm.

When John’s vision cleared, he pulled out of the sensitive, twitching faun. He rolled to the side onto his back and groped for the tissues. He removed the condom and tied it off, dropping it onto the floor for later disposal. Once he gave himself a quick wipe down, he turned to Sherlock.

The faun was curled into a tight ball, his forehead against his knees.

John rested a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He could just make out the small headshake. His brow creased as his concern and frustration grew at his inability to decipher what was wrong. “Can you look at me?”

Sherlock shifted, stilled, and then unfurled enough to turn his face toward John. He was crying silently.

“Hey, it’s alright.” He kissed one damp cheek. “Orgasms can take a lot out of you, you know that. And this one was probably a lot more intense, huh?”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“No shame in that. Let me clean you up, alright?”

There was only so much he could do with the fur that now hid Sherlock’s flaccid penis without water and a flannel, but he managed well enough. Once he tossed the tissues with the condom, he scooted down on the bed and pulled Sherlock against him. He managed to rest his chin on Sherlock’s head without getting poked in the eye, but the antlers loomed around his face.

“Mate?” Sherlock murmured sleepily.

“Yes, love.” John kissed the top of his head. “I’m your mate.”

Sherlock tugged one of John’s arms over his face and inhaled deeply. He let out a soft coo and draped the arm over his chest.


End file.
